


Until I Saw Your Face

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Multi, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sexual Content, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-03-02 17:25:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2820242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If there's one thing Aramis hates, it's being injured - and especially when no one will help him work out some "tension". Of course, he thinks of a solution involving Porthos and d'Artagnan, and who are they to refuse?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Until I Saw Your Face

**Author's Note:**

> I have no excuse for this other than really liking the dynamic between Porthos, Aramis, and d'Artagnan and wishing there were more fic of it... Seriously that's the only reason this pwp exists. (I also continue to try to figure out how to write d'art, so bear with me there.)

“Porthos,” Aramis whines in possibly the most pathetic manner that he can manage without making Porthos just laugh outright. He miscalculates, however, because Porthos just turns towards him with an exasperated smile and, a moment later, laughs at whatever face Aramis is making. Aramis sighs, “Porthos, I’m bored.” 

“Yeah, I hadn’t noticed,” Porthos says with a roll of his eyes, and moves over towards the bed in which Aramis is currently confined. Aramis’ poker face must be suffering after three days of bedrest because Porthos just laughs again and shakes his head. “I’m not coming here to fuck you.” 

“Porthooooos,” Aramis whines out in a completely non-ridiculous way, but Porthos is not swayed. “Porthos,” he tries again, “I’m so bored and I’m so cooped up and you _know_ that I need to relax and be peaceful – and what better way to get me to relax than to fuck me until I can’t move?” 

Porthos doesn’t say anything in favor of fetching the medical supplies on the little table beside Aramis’ bed – but his silence means that he’s tempted and his silence means that he’s thinking about it, so Aramis decides to push a little more, reaching out to touch Porthos’ arms once he’s near enough, to slide his hands down him purposefully. 

“Please, my darling,” he sighs out, tips his chin down so he can look up at Porthos through his eyelashes. 

The Stare, as Porthos has taken to calling it after several years, doesn’t actually work on Porthos as well as it did in the early years, and therefore Porthos merely smiles at him, soft and indulgent and thoroughly _not_ as aroused as Aramis was hoping for. Damn it. He’d only ever beg like this with Porthos, if only because he knows Porthos is likely to give in or never judge him or view him as pathetic for it. Porthos knows Aramis, better than most. 

Porthos leans in and kisses him lightly – hardly much of a peck, but enough to get Aramis to sigh and try to shift forward. But Porthos plants one of his large hands on Aramis’ shoulder and nudges him back. 

“You still have a fever,” Porthos reminds him, and Aramis groans out in his irritation. He’s been bedridden for days now with this horrible fever, and he’s tired and irritable and in need of a good fuck because honestly just Porthos breathing near him is enough to get him half-hard. He’s tired, unable to move or stretch without pain thanks to the long gash running down his leg from a flailing slash of a dying man’s blade. It goes from thigh to his hip and he’s been propped up on cushions and draped in linens for days now and he’s certain that he’s going insane. At first Porthos outright refused to touch him save for medical purposes, fearing harming him, and there were a few attempts made merely to relieve some tension – but any of their attempts had led to pain and Porthos, despite Aramis’ insistence that they could get through it, flat-out refused to cause that kind of pain to Aramis. 

“Just see the humor of the situation,” Porthos suggests, and kisses his cheek when Aramis pouts, “You look very pretty like this.”

“That does help a little,” Aramis allows, because who is he to refuse a compliment when Porthos is smiling at him like that? Still, he can see the worry tinged in Porthos’ eyes, has seen him tight-lipped and tense a few times when checking over the progress of the wound, Aramis awake enough the last few days to issue reassurances and observations of his own medical condition. 

“You’ll be fine,” Porthos says.

“Oh, but my love, my fever is fine for now but if it gets worse that could mean my wound is festering – and if my wound is festering I could lose strength in this leg, or _worse._ ” He lifts his eyebrows comically, reassured enough to joke about this if only because his fever has been going _down_ the last day and a half. “Porthos, I could lose my very deft handling of my… various assets, and then where will we be? You must seize this opportunity while you can.”

“Enjoy your cock while it lasts, you mean?”

“Precisely!” 

He’d hoped that Porthos would laugh rather than get frustrated at him making light of his wound, so he’s relieved and delighted when Porthos laughs outright and cups Aramis’ face, kissing him gently – soft and understanding. Aramis sighs out and sinks back against the cushions, lets Porthos follow after him and kiss him. They kiss for a long while, just focusing on that, and Aramis is confident enough in his abilities to undress Porthos while merely lounging, confident that he can at least get off this time—

But then Porthos is drawing back with the tiniest nip to Aramis’ bottom lip, and Aramis most certainly did _not_ just whine out his protest. 

“You’re misunderstanding me,” Aramis sighs, lifts his hands to cup Porthos’ face, slides his fingers back into his hair. “It’s not about me.”

“Oh no?” Porthos asks, and he’s laughing, but doesn’t move to close the distance again, much to Aramis’ distress. 

“No,” Aramis tuts. “It’s about you. You’re tense as can be, and you’re not resting. You’re tending to me, and trust me, you’re far gentler with me than Athos is, and d’Artagnan is much too eager to actually listen properly when I tell him to do things, but – it’s clear to me that you need to relax.”

“I’m sleeping just fine,” Porthos says. 

“I mean you need to get into bed with someone, Porthos,” Aramis says. “And I’m rather available and easy—” Porthos snorts and Aramis blithely ignores him, continuing, “—and hardly going anywhere. I know what you like.” 

“No,” Porthos sighs, and before Aramis can protest further he says, “We’ve tried already. You get hurt. I’m not risking your stitching.” 

“But,” Aramis begins.

“Would you do it if I was the one injured and I was at risk of being hurt?” 

“That’s different,” Aramis protests. Porthos doesn’t like pain, after all, and Aramis—

“I will fuck you into this bed as hard as you want once your leg is healed. But only then.” 

“I’m merely looking out for your best interests,” Aramis sighs out in a soft, purposeful whine, and Porthos rolls his eyes and reaches out, playing with Aramis’ hair in a way that can only ever make him breathe out, relaxing beneath Porthos’ touch. His eyes flicker up to Porthos, who merely tilts his smile up on one side – apologetic, but unrelenting. Aramis knows he won’t win this battle. 

“You getting better is my best interest.” 

 

-

 

This isn’t to say that Aramis will be deterred, of course. There are other ways to get some relief, after all. He won’t be swayed. He hardly ever is, when he’s determined. He knows it’s a long shot but he tries Athos the next day, who comes to check in on him while d’Artagnan and Porthos are out on patrol. Aramis is already lounging backwards on his cushions in a way he thinks is enticing, looking up as Athos cracks open his window to lean in and check on him. He likes the window right above his bed, really, it always makes him look irresistible when would-be lovers are peeking in on him. 

“Athos, just the man I wanted to see!” Jovial, Aramis beams up at him.

“Porthos already warned me,” Athos says, voice as dry as it always is when in the face of what he perceives to be ridiculousness on Aramis’ part. “And the answer is no.” 

“Surely you can determine for yourself that I’m well and good and merely in need of a satisfying reason for silence,” Aramis proclaims, figuring this is always the best approach to get at Athos, to jab and dig and imply that he really, really won’t shut up for Athos’ entire visit. “Look, I’m spry as always. Give me a reason to shut up, my dear Athos.” 

He demonstrates by wiggling his toes and then tries to scissor kick his legs, including the injured one, and immediately regrets it when he flinches and Athos merely lifts his eyebrows in amused concern, leaning in and pushing Aramis back into his properly reclining position. He exits from the window and returns a moment later arriving through Aramis’ door like a proper gentleman, moving over to Aramis’ bedside in order to attend to him. 

“My answer is and will remain no,” Athos sighs. “Now let me change those bandages.” 

 

-

 

“Porthooooos,” Aramis tries again.

Porthos gives him a fond, but unrelenting smile. “Sorry, you ridiculous man. If I’m fucking anybody, it isn’t going to be you.” 

Aramis pouts for all of two seconds – and then he perks up a bit. 

“Would you fuck someone in front of me?”

Porthos nearly drops the cup of wine he was pouring for Aramis and gives him a completely ridiculous smile, something that’s half disbelief and half pleased. That’s what he loves about Porthos – always willing to tease him and laugh at him, but also never one to turn down some of his more brilliant of ideas. And Porthos certainly hasn’t said no – although perhaps it’s because he thinks he’s joking. 

“What?” Porthos asks, and does hand the cup over.

Aramis takes a contemplative sip, just because he knows how terribly Porthos hates to wait – and how much Aramis loves to tease him for it, make him work for it. He shrugs, nonchalant. 

“Fuck someone in front of me.” 

“And who would do that?” Porthos laughs, and touches at his shoulder, squeezing. If Aramis weren’t injured, he’d shove him playfully. Like this, he’s always painfully gentle. 

Aramis’ eyes are twinkling, though. Porthos didn’t say no – that means he has a chance. 

 

-

 

“Ah, d’Artagnan, just the man I wanted to see!” Aramis gushes later that afternoon. 

“You’re awake,” is d’Artagnan’s greeting, which from anyone else would seem lackluster and withdrawn, but on d’Artagnan merely betrays his relief. He approaches Aramis, smiling a bit, teasing slightly. “How are you feeling?”

“Oh, much better,” Aramis lies, if only to abate all suspicion and reassure instead. “There are certainly some things I’m lacking, some things I need, but – all is well.” 

“Sure,” d’Artagnan says and starts unpacking the medical kit, searching out the bandages. Aramis lets him do this in relative silence, waiting until d’Artagnan looks up to flash him his most charming smile. Instead of being seduced, as Aramis half-hoped he would be, d’Artagnan merely looks amused. “Athos and Porthos already warned me.” And here Aramis wonders if Porthos warned him about _everything._ “I’m flattered, but—”

“My dear d’Artagnan!” cries Aramis, “This is hardly for my own benefit – but for all of you!”

“How do you figure that?” d’Artagnan asks, and seems to be genuinely asking (so Porthos hadn’t explained it all) and goes about tugging down Aramis’ linens in a way that’s entirely too nonchalant, considering that Aramis knows himself to be quite a fantastic sight in all his glory. But d’Artagnan seems entirely focused on unwrapping the bandages around his leg and cleaning the wound, so he should at least commend the man for actually being thorough. 

“Well,” Aramis says, deciding this is a small crack that he can work with, to squeeze into d’Artagnan’s good graces. “It’s not about me, it’s about all of you and how tirelessly you’ve all been working to make sure that I’m alright. It’s Porthos I’m most concerned about – the poor man’s doting on me and hasn’t gone out to enjoy the town in days!”

“How do you know he hasn’t been entertaining when he isn’t with you?” d’Artagnan asks, which, alright, is a fairly logical question but Aramis flushes with a sharp tug of jealousy because, well, he likes to think that Porthos would have said something if he had, but—

“He isn’t doing it in front of me, is my point!” Aramis whines, truly whines. “I’m going mad, d’Artagnan! Utterly insane! And the least he can do is fuck someone else in front of me since he seems content to refuse _me_. If I can’t satisfy him, he should at least give me the satisfaction of seeing him with someone else.” 

When he swivels his head down from his dramatic pronouncement, d’Artagnan is giving him a look. Aramis decides this is a good thing and lowers his lashes a bit, sighing out in a dramatic fashion that doesn’t veer towards _overly_ dramatic. 

“What I need is for someone to offer his services to my dear friend Porthos,” Aramis continues, as he is completely sacrificing and in no way self-serving, “Because he’s so stressed from worrying about me.”

“But he should do it in front of you,” d’Artagnan says, dryly, but also not recoiling. He’s wrapping up Aramis’ leg and the touch is distracting enough if only because of the subject of their conversation. 

“Well, naturally,” Aramis says. “I’m not so sacrificing. You should see Porthos’ face when he’s concentrating – it’s riveting.” 

“You’re absurd,” d’Artagnan says as he finishes tying off the bandages and replacing Aramis’ linens and then pulling the blanket back over his lap. The pronouncement is so Athos-like that Aramis just has to smile widely at him. 

Aramis waits a moment, waits for any outward signs of disgust or disinterest – and then sighs to himself as he watches d’Artagnan pack away the medicine kit, and very pointedly not looking at Aramis. He even detects the high blush on the tips of his ears. 

“It’ll certainly make me a much happier patient,” Aramis says with a conversational sigh. “And it’ll help work out a few… kinks for the lovely volunteer. Porthos is a very gentle and wonderful lover – using all that strength so carefully. It’s wonderful. Very thorough, our Porthos is.” 

“I’m sure,” d’Artagnan says, which is painfully, purposefully neutral. Aramis knows he’s won now. 

“Well then, d’Artagnan. If I were to ask you?” 

And d’Artagnan looks up at him – taken aback, but not repulsed. Perhaps a bit panicky. Aramis’ smile softens, turns gentle and reassuring, and he holds out a hand to touch at d’Artagnan’s arm – glad he isn’t too far away, because shifting would be painful for his leg in this moment, certainly. 

“I’ll tell Porthos it was all my idea, if you’d prefer.”

“It is your idea,” d’Artagnan mutters, “And I haven’t agreed to anything.”

“Aren’t you the least bit curious?” Aramis asks. 

Now d’Artagnan really is blushing, all the way up to his ears, and it’s rather charming. He purses his lips, clips the kit shut and stands up abruptly, dislodging the hand from his arm and coughing a bit. 

“Would it really help you?” d’Artagnan asks and bless his heart, Aramis thinks to himself, for being so serious and such a good friend, even when it’s clear that Aramis is being a selfish fool (as Porthos would call it). Still, he’s not about to complain or take back the proposal now that it’s clear that d’Artagnan is doing anything but refusing. 

“Yes,” Aramis breathes out, voice honeyed and warming with his smile. “It truly would.” 

“Fine,” d’Artagnan says with a shrug. “Just don’t tell Athos. Or anyone. Or even talk about it to me because I _will_ change my mind and I will punch you in that wound.” 

“You have my word,” Aramis says and even crosses his finger over his heart to demonstrate his resolve, not able to wipe away his absolutely blinding grin. 

 

-

 

He’s still grinning a few hours later when Porthos finally decides to amble in to check on the patient, and he’s so beautiful and so handsome and Aramis is so in love with him with just the idea of watching him take d’Artagnan right in front of him. He’s nearly humming with excitement. He really has to thank his lucky stars that d’Artagnan seemed overly eager for the idea, really – so the man had been thinking about it before, been harboring those secret thoughts. Aramis really is lucky. He’d be luckier if he could have both of them without having to content himself with _watching_ , but it’ll have to do. 

Porthos sits down on the bed side and strips him down without a word, just lifting his eyebrows at him in amusement as Aramis basically squirms beneath his hands. 

“At least let me get the bandages off, you ridiculous thing,” he laughs. “What’s the matter with you?”

“So,” Aramis says, entirely too cheerful. 

“So, what?” Porthos asks. 

“So I got d’Artagnan to agree to let you fuck him,” Aramis says, triumphant. 

Porthos fumbles and drops the roll of bandages. “You did what?” 

“Helped d’Artagnan realize a secret desire,” Aramis replies. Before Porthos can protest, he adds, “I know you’ve thought about having him once or twice – don’t pretend otherwise. You can’t hide anything from me.”

“I suppose I can’t,” Porthos says and then smiles just the tiniest bit, shaking his head. “You’re impossible. I clearly can’t leave you alone.”

“The entire point is that you’re doing it here, where I can properly watch,” Aramis says.

“Oh I am, am I? How do you know I won’t just bring the lad back to my quarters to have to myself?” 

Aramis puffs up, knowing that Porthos is teasing him but still taking offense. “You’ll do no such thing – the entire point is to entertain me while I’m in my eternal woe.” 

“Ridiculous,” Porthos says and shakes his head fondly, leaning in and kissing Aramis’ forehead – which is entirely too innocent and lovely and in no way makes Aramis melt. Or sigh. Or smile fondly at him when he opens his eyes again. Porthos is smiling back, amused. “Are you serious?”

“Please?” Aramis asks, knowing he’s won yet again, expression soft and open. “Oh, please, Porthos. Do this for me?” 

“I’m sure I’ll suffer through it,” Porthos mutters, and kisses the tip of Aramis’ nose. “Alright, alright. You win – if this will be what keeps you staying put and not complaining, I can’t refuse.” 

“Oh, I knew you’d agree, my love,” Aramis says, cups his face, and kisses him. 

Fifteen minutes finds Porthos leaving to fetch d’Artagnan and Aramis sitting in his bed thrumming with excitement, already half-hard with just the fantasy of Porthos taking d’Artagnan, just the promise of it. He squirms a little, trying to get into a comfortable position that won’t disrupt his wound but keep him able to truly appreciate – and he shimmies carefully from his smallclothes so that he’s naked beneath his blanket. 

When Porthos and d’Artagnan arrive, Porthos giving Aramis one of those shy little smiles that Aramis frankly adores, and d’Artagnan looking jittery and perhaps a little overly excited, Aramis can’t exactly blame the either of them – he feels unsettled and squirmy in a delightfully new way, like it’s his first time all over again. 

Aramis grins at them both and says, in greeting, “Alright d’Artagnan, bend over the side of the bed, not too close, so I can watch properly.”

Both d’Artagnan and Porthos give him looks – Porthos looking more amused while d’Artagnan looks like he’s torn between leaving or ignoring Aramis entirely. 

“And hello to you, too,” Porthos says with a laugh, and d’Artagnan relaxes just marginally. 

“Don’t ignore my excellent advice,” Aramis tuts. 

“If you’re going to give pointers while we’re doing this, we’re leaving,” Porthos says, but he’s joking and Aramis knows it. “Probably best listen to him, though,” he says to d’Artagnan. “We don’t want to jostle him.” 

“Guess so,” d’Artagnan says, and he seems a bit subdued – probably nervous and unsure what to do with his hands, Aramis thinks, watching the way d’Artagnan fumbles once before just settling his hands limply to his sides. 

“Come here and kiss me,” Aramis demands. Both Porthos and d’Artagnan give him another joint amused look. He tuts again. “You should listen to me – I’m the patient here, making me happy is important.” 

“Go on, then,” Porthos says and gestures towards Aramis – d’Artagnan looks up at Porthos and they exchange a silent moment without words, before d’Artagnan nods and goes to Aramis’ bedside, crawling onto the mattress and leaning in to kiss him. 

Aramis sighs out and relaxes into the kiss, keeping it gentle and sincere, not wanting to frighten him off or make Porthos question his motives. He truly means to behave, stay still and merely watch. Still, the kiss, soft though it might be, is enough to rouse Aramis into attention, if only because it has been several days since he’s been able to find relief. 

“Alright then,” Porthos says from somewhere behind them. And a moment later, d’Artagnan is away from Aramis’ mouth—

Because Porthos is hauling d’Artagnan back by his hips and fits him over the edge of Aramis’ bed, and Aramis hums out his appreciation at watching Porthos manhandle him so effortlessly, the hold on d’Artagnan’s hips firm but gentle. He pushes d’Artagnan’s shirtsleeves up his back. 

“You gonna be alright just sitting there?” Porthos asks, looking at Aramis. 

Aramis sighs dramatically, but before Porthos can become legitimately concerned, he reaches out and takes Porthos’ hand, lifting it to his mouth and kissing over the knuckles. “I have complete faith in the both of you.”

“Hear that, d’Artagnan? Complete faith,” Porthos teases, grinning, as d’Artagnan rolls his eyes and looks up at Porthos over his shoulder. Porthos frees his hand from Aramis’ hold and strokes it down d’Artagnan’s back, his eyes on Aramis. 

“You already look so pretty,” Aramis says, and Porthos just grins and shrugs and d’Artagnan rolls his eyes again.

“Should I undress you?” Porthos asks d’Artagnan, running his hands along his flanks. 

Quiet for a moment, d’Artagnan ultimately shakes his head. “Just make it fast.”

Aramis lifts his eyebrows and looks to Porthos, who looks back at him with a thoughtful frown. 

“Hey,” Porthos says just as Aramis says, “d’Artagnan…” 

Shaking his head, d’Artagnan looks up. “No, not – I mean, I just like it fast.” 

Aramis laughs, relaxing slightly. “If there’s anything you don’t like about this, just say so.” 

“I’ll stop as soon as you tell me to,” Porthos says.

“Oh, stop it,” d’Artagnan mutters and shifts a bit where he’s braced against the bed, working at his belt. “I’m hardly an innocent – I know how this works.” 

Aramis and Porthos exchange another surprised look and then Porthos just grins. “Oh yeah?”

“ _Yes_ ,” d’Artagnan stresses, a touch petulant, and wriggles out of his trousers and smallclothes. “Now fuck me, if that’s what the whole point of this is.” 

“Oh, I like him,” Aramis says, tugging open the drawer to his bedside table and tossing Porthos the bottle of oil they tend to share between them in late nights of drinking. Porthos grins and works at the cork as he strokes one hand over d’Artagnan’s bare ass, making him bite back a moan. 

“Of course you do,” Porthos replies, and slicks his fingers up, stroking his fingers down into the cleft of d’Artagnan’s ass, stroking absently without pressing in, just teasing at him, getting a sense of what d’Artagnan wants. 

“If you two are just going to talk to each other like I’m not here, I’m leaving,” d’Artagnan says suddenly, wriggling back to press against Porthos’ fingers.

“Forgive me,” Aramis says with a sigh, “We’re neglecting you, after you’ve been so kind as to help both me and Porthos with our problem.” 

“Yeah, I’m suffering through it,” d’Artagnan drawls, but he’s flushed already and, from what Aramis can see, hard just from this briefest of attentions, just from having two sets of eyes on him. 

And then Porthos presses one finger into him and he groans out. Porthos ducks his head, splays light kisses all over d’Artagnan’s back, pushing his tunic up high enough to get at the skin there. And Aramis reaches out, carefully so as not to cause alarm to either of them for his movements, and strokes his fingers through d’Artagnan’s hair. 

Aramis strokes his fingers along d’Artagnan’s jaw, then squeezes his fingers into his mouth – d’Artagnan makes a sound but then just suckles on them as Porthos fingers into him, his movements swift but practical, taking care to make sure d’Artagnan is ready and willing. Aramis groans quietly, his free hand gripping the base of his cock and stroking, movements slow and teasing – knowing he wants to savor this, knowing to take his time so as not to hurt himself and disrupt the beautiful picture lying out before him. 

It doesn’t take long for the three of them to get into it, the strangeness of their situation and the set up melting away in favor of Porthos working d’Artagnan open, d’Artagnan’s fingers twitching and gripping the sheets tightly, holding back appreciative noises – and Aramis there to watch it all, just to appreciate it all. He appreciates the sight of Porthos’ eyes lowered, looking d’Artagnan over, the way his fingers stretch and slide into him with such precise care. The way he looks ready to take him at any moment but also knows to take his time. And d’Artagnan – Aramis has never seen him in this situation and thus he takes his time drinking him in, the way his back arches when Porthos does something in particular he really likes, the way his hands twitch in the sheets, the way he presses his head down briefly only to look back up at both Aramis or Porthos, sucking on Aramis’ fingers when he can think to do so. He’s open and willing, mouth lax with his moans, his face flushed and hair in his eyes. He’s irresistible, frankly, and Aramis wishes he were uninjured enough to truly appreciate having him in his bed. For now, he has to merely content himself with the joy of watching Porthos tower over him, large and strong to d’Artagnan’s excited energy and fluid movements. 

Porthos smiles at Aramis briefly, when he glances at him, and sets a steady pace stroking into d’Artagnan, a pace that he knows that Aramis likes – and Aramis bites his lip, strokes his free hand along d’Artagnan’s jaw. 

“Is that good?” Aramis asks and d’Artagnan nods. 

Porthos and Aramis exchange a look over d’Artagnan and Porthos tilts his head a bit, lips quirking into that small half-smile of his, crooked and entirely too wonderful – Aramis grins back and strokes his fingertips over d’Artagnan’s tongue to motivate him to suckle a bit harder. 

Porthos, when determined, often can’t be swayed from what he’s doing, and so Aramis watches with a quiet kind of fascination as Porthos spreads d’Artagnan, applying more oil where necessary and just focusing on opening up and leaving d’Artagnan a trembling, boneless mess across Aramis’ mattress. Aramis knows what he’s feeling, knows how full and complete just Porthos’ fingers can leave him, and it’s fascinating to watch Porthos work on another, fascinating to watch d’Artagnan go through every flit of emotion Aramis remembers feeling himself every time Porthos presses into him with such care. 

“I think he’s ready now, Porthos,” Aramis informs after several minutes of just watching that, just drowning in all of d’Artagnan’s encouraging sounds. He sighs out and withdraws his fingers from d’Artagnan’s mouth. 

“I’m sure I can speak for myself,” d’Artagnan protests, breathless, already looking blissed out from just this. Aramis smiles down at him, fond. 

“How about it, then? You ready for me?” Porthos asks, twisting the three fingers inside of him. 

That just makes d’Artagnan groan, ducking his head and nodding. Porthos withdraws his thick fingers slowly, slicks himself up, and lines up to him, hands stroking over his hips absently. 

“Go on,” Aramis whispers, “Fuck him.” 

“I should have known you’d be demanding when all you’re doing is watching,” Porthos says, and ducks over d’Artagnan, nuzzling into the back of his neck and pressing a kiss to the back of his ear, whispering out a few words that Aramis doesn’t quite catch, but seems to work for d’Artagnan because he laughs a bit, shakes his head, and relaxes. 

Porthos’ hands shift back from his hips and to his ass, spreading him as he presses into him – moving so slow, just the way Aramis knew he would, just the way Aramis loves to see him, so utterly concentrated on the task at hand, brow furrowed, jaw clenched. How gentle and careful his Porthos is, who’s so strong and devastating in all things – and handles everyone with such care when he can. 

“How does he feel?” Aramis asks, breathless, stroking himself at a lazy pace as he watches Porthos slide into d’Artagnan, hold still to let him adjust, and waits for d’Artagnan to start wriggling his hips before he dares to move. Porthos curls his arms around d’Artagnan, holding him up and keeping close to him as he rocks his hips forward a few times. 

“Tight,” Porthos says with a grin and d’Artagnan makes a slightly scandalized noise, huffing out and rocking his hips back in a defiant manner that just makes Porthos moan and grin – and d’Artagnan just grunts and snaps his hips back into a harder thrust. 

“We assure you, d’Artagnan, that’s a high compliment,” Aramis says, and strokes his fingers into d’Artagnan’s hair. 

And d’Artagnan just huffs again, doesn’t say anything, concentrated on adjusting, on getting his bearings again now that Porthos is bottomed out inside of him. He bites his lip, his face flushed in an entirely too enticing manner, and Aramis just wants to lean down and kiss him, but doesn’t dare jostle his leg in fear of these two stopping what they’re doing in front of him. 

Porthos waits until d’Artagnan starts to move before he begins a slow and steady pace, thrusting into him shallowly, giving him room to move and meet him, to adjust and shift to accommodate the girth of Porthos’ cock. Aramis is breathless, not saying a word as he watches the way Porthos rocks into him, holds him – the way d’Artagnan arches and moans in response. 

“That all you got?” d’Artagnan asks after a moment, voice sudden and teasing – not nearly as breathless as Aramis would have guessed he’d be. “I thought the point was to fuck me hard, Porthos. I’m underwhelmed so far.” 

Porthos’ eyebrows lift high and he turns towards Aramis, who’s already grinning at him. 

“Fuck,” Porthos says, gripping d’Artagnan tight. He rocks into him once, harder than before – and d’Artagnan groans. 

“Seems he knows what he wants,” Aramis says, flushed with the joy of it. 

“Then I should give him what he likes,” Porthos replies with a grin.

“Stop speaking as if I’m not – ah!” d’Artagnan’s reply is cut off by the sudden slam of Porthos’ hips against him, sliding deep into him. He writhes, thrusts back to meet him, and they set a far sharper and steadier pace than before. 

Porthos is listening carefully to the sounds that d’Artagnan is making – good sounds, sweet sounds, perfect little sounds that mark his pleasure – but Porthos is always so careful, especially with those who aren’t Aramis. He widens his stance and takes d’Artagnan firmly by the hips, fucking into him hard, but nearly as hard as he could – Aramis has seen him completely letting go, after years of coaxing it out of him, and with this he’s driving d’Artagnan towards the edge, who’s all wet sounds and muffled moans against Aramis’ bed linens, but there’s no danger of seriously harming him. 

Aramis watches as d’Artagnan writhes and gasps, rocking back hard to meet Porthos, seemingly enjoying this pace and making his own demands of it – and Aramis loves that about him, how he demands even now, how there’s just that touch of defiance in his earnestness, the way he looks up at Aramis as if seeking approval and also assuring himself that Aramis has kept still, that he isn’t harming himself. Aramis smiles at him, charming and sincere, whenever their eyes meet, stroking his cock in time to Porthos’ thrusts as he rocks into d’Artagnan’s willing body. 

“Very good,” he tells d’Artagnan, who rolls his eyes at the rudimentary praise and shifts up onto his elbows to change the angle, slamming his hips back and gasping for his efforts when Porthos slides deep into him. 

“Oh,” he says. 

Porthos chuckles, sounding breathless himself, and ducks his head to place sloppy kisses along the back of d’Artagnan’s neck and shoulders, the dip of his spine. Aramis watches d’Artagnan close his eyes, his lips parting as he sighs out, leans into Porthos’ touch – trusting him completely and enjoying the ride for what it is, rocking back hard onto Porthos’ cock, steady in Porthos’ hands. 

“You’re going to come soon, aren’t you?” d’Artagnan asks, and it’s a simple enough question but it speaks straight to Aramis’ cock – the soft way he asks it, the way he can already tell the cadence of Porthos’ movements, sense the way that he loses his rhythm the closer he gets to his completion. Aramis licks his lips, wishes that he could join more, but doesn’t dare move aside from stroking his cock in a lazy kind of precision. 

“Yeah,” Porthos grunts out, thrusting hard into him. 

“Go ahead,” d’Artagnan says and he sounds almost _haughty_ about it and Aramis has to moan. When he blinks his eyes open, he finds d’Artagnan looking at him – and almost looking smug as he rolls his hips back against Porthos, merciless in his movements. “Go ahead, then.” 

When Porthos comes, Aramis watches his face, the way his lips go slack, his eyes close, the way he just drives into d’Artagnan, but still with that gentle care not to overdo it – and spends himself inside of d’Artagnan, who squirms and makes a face before he seems to end up enjoying the sensation, thrashing a bit and moaning, rocking back against Porthos and milking him dry. 

Aramis is breathless as if he was the one to come, unable to look away from either of them. 

Aramis waits until Porthos is spent, slumping over d’Artagnan and kissing the back of his ear before he’s drawing back – before he reaches out and strokes his hand down d’Artagnan’s back in turn. 

“Let me see?” he asks, and d’Artagnan flushes, but sits up a bit, adjusting his tunic and his trousers so he can climb properly onto the bed, his face a deep red color as he presents Aramis his ass. 

Aramis sighs out, strokes his hand down over d’Artagnan’s backside, and then sucks two fingers into his mouth. When he reaches out again, he pulls d’Artagnan closer. 

“Very nice,” Aramis says, and slides two fingers into d’Artagnan, just to watch him squirm, and spreads his fingers. He works absently into d’Artagnan, who’s open and willing and he can feel Porthos’ come inside of him, feel the nervous thrum of d’Artagnan’s energy, unspent and wishing to be. 

“Hey,” Porthos warns, eyeing Aramis’ leg with some trepidation. 

“I can do this much without disrupting myself,” Aramis protests, and gives Porthos a long look. “I’d have happily done it to you, too, if you hadn’t gone and refused me.” 

“Don’t pout,” Porthos says and leans in, tipping Aramis’ chin up and kissing him before Aramis can protest that he _wasn’t_ pouting. Aramis strokes into d’Artagnan, shallow and precise, and he moans. Porthos hums out absently and kisses Aramis deeply. 

Aramis reaches with his free hand and curls around d’Artagnan’s cock, stroking him. 

“Look at what this brute did to you,” Aramis says when he pulls back from the kiss, smiling sweetly at Porthos for a long moment as he speaks before turning his attention to d’Artagnan, “He’s gone and neglected you and sought his own pleasure first.” 

“I figured you’d want to take care of him – and that he’d want it to last,” Porthos says, not seeming the least bit offended by Aramis’ comment as he moves back towards d’Artagnan’s other end, smiling down at him when d’Artagnan reaches out to grasp his hand. 

Their fingers curl together and Aramis falters for one moment when he sees the look exchanged between them, soft and knowing, intimate considering what they’d just done. Aramis hates himself for the hot flush of jealousy that coils somewhere in the pit of his stomach, and he tugs hard on d’Artagnan’s cock so that his eyes close and he gasps out, arching. 

Aramis works at d’Artagnan’s cock and watches as Porthos cups d’Artagnan’s face and tilts it up to kiss him deeply, drinking down all of his startled cries and moans as Aramis strokes him to completion, coming into his hand as he cups it over the head of his cock. He shudders, going pliant and weightless on the bed and Aramis strokes his free hand gently over his thigh, watches as Porthos kisses him slow and soft. 

Aramis watches and feels a pang that he refuses to acknowledge that melts away as soon as Porthos draws back, kisses d’Artagnan’s cheek, and then glances over at Aramis, catching his gaze and smiling at him – that slow burn of a smile that always makes Aramis’ insides melt, that smile that always, always reaches his eyes. 

“What do you think, d’Artagnan? Has he behaved enough?” 

“Hm,” d’Artagnan grunts, and clearly he’s the type who is not very functional after sex, because he’s looking rather boneless in Porthos’ hold. “It’ll do.” 

Porthos just grins and pulls his trousers back up and walks the few paces to fetch a towel, cleaning off d’Artagnan before he moves towards Aramis, sliding his hand gently down his chest, to the obvious erection still gripped in Aramis’ hands. 

“Porthos,” Aramis whines out when he moves closer, when Porthos curls his hand around the cock, not stroking him just yet and just holding him. 

“Hey,” he says softly, free hand lifting to brush over his cheek and Aramis sighs, leaning into the touch. “Don’t move, alright? The whole point was for you not to strain yourself.” 

“Porthos,” Aramis whispers again, knowing he’s desperate at this point, knowing that he likes the tease of the wait, of becoming so desperate for it that he can hardly function – but now he has tunnel vision and all he can see and think about is Porthos. Porthos fucking d’Artagnan, Porthos making d’Artagnan feel good, Porthos, maybe, making Aramis feel good, too. 

Porthos moves down and, so incredibly careful and gentle and Aramis just wants it hard but knows he won’t get it, Porthos takes his cock into his mouth. He exhales, curls his tongue just along the tip of it, and suckles – but that’s enough just to get Aramis to breathe out and moan, fingers threading into those beautiful curls. Behind Porthos, Aramis hears d’Artagnan make a soft noise, feels the bed shift as d’Artagnan gets dressed and cranes his neck enough to watch as Porthos kneels on the floor beside the bed, the angle odd but still perfect enough for Aramis, giving d’Artagnan a good view of Porthos’ full lips pillowed along the head of Aramis’ cock. 

“You still have a fever,” Porthos whispers against the cockhead, lips and tongue brushing so lightly that Aramis shudders. Porthos strokes over his cock with one hand and then braces it against his belly, feeling the flush of heat that Aramis knows isn’t entirely fever but just the hot coil of desire. 

“Porthos,” he whispers, because there’s nothing else he can say other than a reverent praise to the man in his lap. 

Porthos smiles up at him, indulgent. And he sucks Aramis off with a lack of finesse that, in that moment, is exactly what Aramis wants – and it hardly takes any time at all once that mouth is on him for him to come, trying to thrust up into that mouth before Porthos and d’Artagnan both anchor him down, keeping him still as Porthos bobs his head against him, drinking him down. Aramis cries out, not from pain, but the pleasure of it, and the faint thrill of being restricted like this. 

“One of you could have done that from the beginning,” Aramis pants when he comes back to himself. 

“You’d have managed to coerce your way onto one of our cocks and then where would you be? Even more injured and I’d have to explain myself to Athos,” Porthos says with a laugh as he draws back from Aramis’ cock, wiping his mouth absently. 

“How are you feeling?” d’Artagnan asks, ever the practical one. 

“Much better,” Aramis sighs, lounging back on his pillows and closing his eyes. “So much better.” 

He’s already thinking of how to convince them both to do that again – but then d’Artagnan leans in to kiss him. He knows it’s d’Artagnan because of the shape of his lips, the eagerness to the kiss. Where Porthos and he kiss with a more leisured understanding after years of exploring that particular aspect, with d’Artagnan, it’s like kissing for the first time and Aramis smiles, curls his fingers into his hair, and keeps him close, trading indulgent kisses against his lips. Porthos sighs a bit and Aramis can imagine him shaking his head. Aramis hears footsteps which means that Porthos is cleaning up, preparing, probably fetching new bandages for Aramis. Aramis doesn’t care much beyond just kissing d’Artagnan, who grows less timid by the moment and far more determined and self-assured. 

When he draws back, he smiles at d’Artagnan, and turns his head to find Porthos holding out cups of wine to the both of them. 

“Out of the way,” he tells d’Artagnan, and tugs on a piece of his hair. “The patient needs his bandages redone.” 

And d’Artagnan scrambles out of the way, jostling the bed, but thankfully not enough to cause Aramis any serious pain. 

“We’ll take care of you,” Porthos says as he sits down on the edge of the bed. 

“In more ways than one?” Aramis asks, and knows he sounds overly hopeful. 

Porthos just grins and d’Artagnan laughs – and Aramis knows that’s a yes.

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found on [tumblr](http://stardropdream.tumblr.com/) for whatever reason.


End file.
